Me and Harry at the Christmas Party

Baby!

My friend, Kevin, and his wife just had a baby about a week and a half ago. I can't believe one of us is a parent.

One of us is now responsible for the life of another human being 24 hours a day.

One of us will now answer to Daddy (and not in that kinky kind of way).

The baby is beautiful. He is perfect in every way.

Kevin is so lucky. I'm so happy for him.

Hopefully he's getting SOME sleep.

I'm not exactly hiding

I don't really have a reason for not letting everyone know that I've started a blog again. It's not really a secret. I guess I just want a place of my own to hang out (with the exception of John, whom I've invited in because my blog was the way we usually talked to each other).

It wouldn't be terrible to have people reading me again. I wouldn't mind. I'm easy enough to find (hell, I think I've already been found by an old reader or two). And, eventually, I'm sure I will let everyone know.

Just not yet.

I'm hoping I won't offend anyone by not telling them right away.

That is not my intention.

Sometimes a woman just needs a room of her own. Virginia Woolf was a smart lady.

I'm feeling a bit nostalgic; don't mind me.

I've been thinking about a friend from high school lately-- Chris Guthrie. I miss him terribly.

11 years ago, he gave me this fantastic fuzzy blue journal for Christmas with an inscription inside. I still have the journal. Pages have been written in and torn out in those 11 years, but the inscription page is still there, fully intact. I plan on keeping this thing until the day I die. Yes, a nearly empty journal missing pages.

But it's mine, and it's part of him, too.


The inscription reads:

Someone once told me that journals represent different parts of your life. That each journal kept a piece of you and you a piece of it. Here's a fuzzy place to keep the part of your life that's just beginning. Much has happened, much is yet to come. And much is happening now. Take a stand, hold your head high, and take what life has to give you. Remember what I told you at Shakespeare? "You're stronger than you think." When you're feeling like life is jabbing you in the chest with a shovel or hot pokers or other such devices, come here and retreat. Sort stuff out. When you're kicking life's ass, come here and gloat. You're a special gal, Lieshie, remember that. And remember Shakespeare.

Chris
12-25-94

My Late Thanks Giving

The year is coming to an end once again. My dad was right; the older you get, the faster days go by. I think that’s the only thing my dad’s ever been right about. That and real estate is a good investment.

Anyway, I was thinking about all the good things in my life right now, all the things I have to be thankful for.

I’m thankful for yet another wonderful year of marriage. It just keeps getting better and better. I wish for all my friends to have a marriage as happy as mine.

I’m thankful for my crazy family. They keep me entertained and they keep my on my toes. You have to be a defensive driver with my kin. I’ve hit way too many potholes in the past.

I’m thankful for the friends I have. I don’t get to see them often (or in John’s case, we’ve never even met), but I know they’re there. They make me smile and give me the warm fuzzies on a daily basis.

I’m thankful for another year of work. After getting laid off the week of Christmas a few years back, I will always be thankful that I’m still employed around this time of year.

I’m thankful for paying off another year’s worth of car payments (and then some). It brings us one step closer to one day having a house of our own.

I’m thankful for having pretty much all of my Christmas shopping already done.

I’m thankful for chocolate and coffee. Oh, how I’m thankful.

I’m thankful for the ability to love. There are people out there that don’t know what it’s like; I’m glad I’m not one of them.

I’m thankful for being me. I like me. I think I’ll keep me.

10 Years Gone

High school is now 10 years behind us. 10 years. “10 YEARS!” (in my best Jeremy Piven voice, which isn’t all that good seeing as I’m a woman).

We’ve somewhat grown up and somewhat grown apart.

We used to meet at our diner 4, 5, sometimes 6 nights a week. Me and the guys, C, K, and T. Now I see them once or twice a year.

C is out there, living the single life, partying to his hearts’ content, all the while trying to find himself.

K is expecting his first child this coming Monday. I can’t believe he’s gonna be a daddy.

T just broke it off with his fiancée, which is unfortunate, to say the least. I still wish only good things for him.

M used to meet with us occasionally, but he’s since moved to NY. I get an email once in a blue moon.

K’s still here, working, working, and working. I see her more than anyone else.

J really left right after high school, first to Boston for college, then to LA for 5 years, and has now resided in San Fran for the passed year.

L is still here with me, living in middle suburbia, also newly married, trying to make ends meet. Domestic Goddesses both.

H I haven’t seen since graduation. I saw in the local paper that she’s getting married and now lives in Mass. I miss her.

K, who was the whitest African American I ever knew, found her roots her freshman year of college and started dating some guy named Tiger. I’m not sure where she is now.

B is most likely doing volunteer work in addition to her 60 hours a week job helping anyone and everyone. Maybe she even joined the Peace Corps. B is amazing. I hope to see her again sometime soon.

C got married and moved to Wisconsin but recently moved back to CT this passed summer. I’m hoping to bump into him sometime.

C is living in Ohio doing what he loves: acting. Go Arlo. Hope we can have a cup of coffee together again someday.

There are so many more, friends I haven’t seen or heard from since graduation day. How are they doing? I hear bits and pieces every once in a while. I wish we could all see each other again.

I read my niece’s journal, talking about her 7 best friends, and I hope that 10 years from now, she’s still got those 7 best friends. I hope they meet for lunch occasionally.

All you need is love

I love Harry a little more every day. I wonder how that happens.

They’ve done a new study that says there’s some kind of chemical that’s found to be in higher quantities in new lovers than in ones that have been together for more than a year.

They say that’s why marriages grow stale. That lust, that drive that attracts you and attacks you in the beginning when everything is hot and heavy supposedly goes away when that chemical dissipates.

In my case, that hasn’t happened yet.

Do I have more of this chemical, or is it simply that this experiment is a crock of shit?

I believe the latter of the two.

Not all people love the same. There’s no way to measure it. And I don’t think Science should try to do so.

Every day, I find out new and interesting things about my husband. He never ceases to amaze me. I love that.

I hope it’s the same way for him.

We have fun together. We’re a good team when it comes to life in general. We make each other laugh.

We’re luckier than most. I remind myself of that whenever things get a little off.

Who's the boss?

It’s probably been about a month since I wrote a real entry. I missed it. More than I thought.

My life seems to be ever-changing, things rearranging and overlapping and melting together to form some kind of cohesive ooze.

That’s me… ooze, drippings with goo. “Whys am I drippings with goo?”

Work has become routine once again, which I’m liking. Going to the gym is also becoming routine, which I’m liking even more.

I’m feeling healthier than I’ve ever felt in my life. My head is clear, for a change. I find myself smiling when I have a moment to ponder nothing.

I’m turning another corner, rounding another bend (just like Tony and his big, fat van), taking the road JUST PAVED.

It’s epiphany time, I tell you, which is perfect because my “Breakfast at Epiphanies” mix is due in a few weeks. Oh, the wheels are a turnin’.

I couldn't stay away

This thing is like a drug.

I couldn't stay away

This thing is like a drug.

Hell Yeah, Sulu!

'Star Trek' Actor George Takei Comes Out (Article taken from Yahoo News)


LOS ANGELES - George Takei, who as helmsman Sulu steered the Starship Enterprise through three television seasons and six movies, has come out as a homosexual in the current issue of Frontiers, a biweekly Los Angeles magazine covering the gay and lesbian community.

Takei told The Associated Press on Thursday that his new onstage role as psychologist Martin Dysart in "Equus," helped inspire him to publicly discuss his sexuality.

Takei described the character as a "very contained but turbulently frustrated man." The play opened Wednesday at the David Henry Hwang Theater in Los Angeles, the same day that Frontiers magazine featured a story on Takei's coming out.

The current social and political climate also motivated Takei's disclosure, he said.

"The world has changed from when I was a young teen feeling ashamed for being gay," he said. "The issue of gay marriage is now a political issue. That would have been unthinkable when I was young."

The 68-year-old actor said he and his partner, Brad Altman, have been together for 18 years.

Takei, a Japanese-American who lived in a U.S. internment camp from age 4 to 8, said he grew up feeling ashamed of his ethnicity and sexuality. He likened prejudice against gays to racial segregation.

"It's against basic decency and what American values stand for," he said.

Takei joined the "Star Trek" cast in 1966 as Hikaru Sulu, a character he played for three seasons on television and in six subsequent films. He received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in 1986.

A community activist, Takei ran for the Los Angeles City Council in 1973. He serves on the advisory committee of the California Civil Liberties Public Education Program and is chairman of East West Players, the theater company producing "Equus."

Can you hear the angels singing?

You know, that "Ahhhhhhhhh", like opening up a box and finding God inside, a bright light pouring out of the top and warming your face. Ok, maybe the angels' "Ahhhhhhhhh" only makes ME think of something like that.

Anyway, yesterday was a wonderful day at work because I have finally been told when I'll start my new work hours... November 1st. Woo-hoo! I'll be working 8:30am-5pm, just like the rest of the civilized world.

I'll also be heading up a team of my own, which is cool. I'll be more "in the loop" from now on, which is both a blessing and a curse. We'll see how it goes. I like being in the know. I like putting in my two bits.

Maybe I'll even get internet access. Hey, it can happen.

Letter to a concerned and wonderful friend

Hey R-
Yeah, I've been MIA for the passed couple of weeks. I haven't written an entry in eons. Work has been hectic..., so I've been trying to de-stress by watching TV instead of blogging. Surprisingly, it's actually been working!

For the first time in years, I didn't even touch the computer this entire weekend. No email, nothing. That's gotta be some kind of a record for me! We kept ourselves busy going to a Halloween party on Saturday and having dinner at my mom's on Sunday. We even pulled out Trivial Pursuit Sunday night to play with my niece. How suburban can you get?

It just feels good to get away from yourself for a while and do things you normally wouldn't do. It's refreshing. I'm not sure when I'll get back to Blogland. It's starting to feel like yet another chapter in my life, one that may be ending. Who knows?

But I am doing OK. Thank you for asking. Even if I stop writing in my own blog, I'll still be lurking around on yours:)

Take care-
Alicia

The reasons behind the songs

I haven't been in the writing mood lately; forgive me. I wanted to write about why I chose the songs I did for my new mix when I was posting yesterday, but I was just feeling all-out-lazy and just wanted to watch ER. Today, I'm feeling a little more verbose, so I shall set to accomplishing my task.

K.K. - Without You - Motley Crue - Kristine was my first best friend. We met in kindergarten. One of our favorite things to do growing up was to hang out in her play room and listen to records and later on, tapes. Kris was a HUGE Motley Crue fan (as was I), and this song always reminds me of her.

A.T. - Stand - REM - I also met Andriana in kindergarten. We only lived about 5 or 6 houses away from each other. We could even talk to one another through our bedroom windows since she lived on the side street near my house. Andie loved songs you could dance to, and she loved songs that actually had a dance to them even more. I remember her doing the STAND dance in her basement den.

H.A. - My Sharona - The Knack - I met Heather in fourth grade. We became fast friends when we found out we shared the exact same birthday. We were, in fact, only born minutes away from each other, both in Bridgeport but in different hospitals. In high school, Heather and I went to go see Reality Bites, and we would re-enact that scene in the gas station where Lanie and Vicki and Sammie are dancing to this song over and over again.

J.P. - Heavenly - Harry Connick Jr. - I met Jess in fifth grade. I believe she was already a Harry Connick Jr. fan at the age of 10, and she introduced me to his music as we hung out more. I love this song, and I always think of her when I hear it. "The man in the moon is smilin' cuz he's in love with the girl in the world..."

L.C. - Wanted Dead or Alive - Bon Jovi - Lea STILL loves Bon Jovi and breaks out her old t-shirts for when she goes to the concerts. Any Bon Jovi song reminds me of her, but I especially like this one.

S.D. - High Enough - Damn Yankees - Scott was my first major crush and ultimately, my first love. This was "our song" which he made sure he put on the two mixed tapes he made me in eighth grade. Those tapes are lurking somewhere in my mom's house to this day. When he started working at my office a couple of years ago, we talked about those damn tapes. He actually still remembered the music he put on them.

M.M. - More Than Words - Extreme - This song is one of my guilty pleasures, and it will forever remind me and probably most of the girls that went to Flood Junior High of Mike because he and Jav played and sang it at the talent show.

A.Z. - Every Rose Has Its Thorn - Poison - Andy used to play and sing this song all the time. And then we danced to it at the eighth grade banquet. The Zy... I wonder where he is now.

B.D. - Precious Things - Tori Amos - I started listening to Tori in eighth grade, and this song just stuck with me. It's all about Billy..."Running after Billy, running after the rain..."

C.S. - Hey Jealousy - Gin Blossoms - One day while visiting Sanetti at the beach, this song came on, and it's reminded me of him ever since. I think it had more to do with my feelings about his relationship with his girlfriend than anything else.

C.G. - Whale and Wasp - Alice in Chains - This entire album, Jar of Flies reminds me of Guthrie. I think it just establishes the time period of our friendship.

C.C. - Footsteps - Pearl Jam - When Chris and I started hanging out, he had just started moving away from R&B and more into Seattle Grunge. When he found Pearl Jam, it was like finding the love of his life. I remember him singing this song all the time when we first started dating.

K.C. - Seether - Veruca Salt - With Chris came his sister, Kim, who now, after all these years, is one of my closest gal pals. When I first met her, Chris had her do the "Seether Dance". This will always be Kim's song.

R.C. - Blister in the Sun - The Violent Femmes - This was Rob's favorite song in high school. We would sit around, smoking, and singing this song.

K.S. - Kryptonite - 3 Doors Down - Any Bruce Springsteen song reminds me of Kevin, but I'm not a big fan of The Boss. Instead, because Kev's such a huge fan of Superman (as am I), I picked this song. I was surprised when he adopted a new dog that he didn't name it Krypto. As long as he doesn't pull a Nicholas Cage and name his soon-to-be-born child, Kal-el, all will be well in the world. And Nick, please don't name your next kid J'onn J'onzz after The Martian Manhunter; most of us can't even pronounce that.

T.R. - Ants Marching - DMB - Tom loved this song and played it all the time.

M.D. - Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw? - Jimmy Buffett - Because that's what we did after this song came on the juke box one night at the bar.

D.K. - Professional Widow - Tori Amos - Dawn was big into the raves when I met her working at the kiosk. When she found out I was a Tori fan, she told me she loved the remix of this song. When Tori put it out on a Greatest Hits type of record, I fell in love with it, too.

H.B. - No Ordinary Love - Sade - "There's nothing like you and I, Baby. This is no ordinary love, no ordinary love." Need I say more? Oh, how I love my husband.

A.B. - Glory Box - Portishead - Yes, I even picked a song that reminds me of me. "I'm so tired of playin'/ Playin' with this bow and arrow/ Gonna give my heart away/ Leave it to the other girls to play/ For I've been a temptress too long/ Just give me a reason to love you/ Give me a reason to be a woman/ I just wanna be a woman."

New mix

There are many people who have made a lasting impression on me while growing up. Writing these passed few entries has brought up memories of them, and, along with those visual memories, audio ones have come up, as well. My life seems to be compiled of soundtracks, songs that have also recorded events that have taken place within their melodies and bass lines. On my break at work last week, I decided to put together yet another soundtrack of my life, this one consisting of the people I have known. I'm thinking about calling it "This is how you remind me..."

K.K. - Without You - Motley Crue
A.T. - Stand - REM
H.A. - My Sharona - The Knack
J.P. - Heavenly - Harry Connick Jr.
L.C. - Wanted Dead or Alive - Bon Jovi
S.D. - High Enough - Damn Yankees
M.M. - More Than Words - Extreme
A.Z. - Every Rose Has Its Thorn - Poison
B.D. - Precious Things - Tori Amos
C.S. - Hey Jealousy - Gin Blossoms
C.G. - Whale and Wasp - Alice in Chains
C.C. - Footsteps - Pearl Jam
K.C. - Seether - Veruca Salt
R.C. - Blister in the Sun - The Violent Femmes
K.S. - Kryptonite - 3 Doors Down
T.R. - Ants Marching - DMB
M.D. - Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw? - Jimmy Buffett
D.K. - Professional Widow - Tori Amos
H.B. - No Ordinary Love - Sade
A.B. - Glory Box - Portishead

Elementary, my dear Watson

All of my teachers had an impact on my life growing up. I always wanted to make them proud (well, most of them anyway). I loved them for all they could teach us and for all the loving and caring they showed us at such a young and impressionable age. I looked up to them; they were my heroes. They were the reason I wanted to become a teacher myself.

My kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Imbro. I remember her being kind and somewhat "hip" because she was relatively young. She was married to a Stratford fireman (who is now the chief of the Stratford Fire Department, that is, unless he recently retired). She had pretty blonde hair, was very tall and thin, and wore glasses. There's a picture of her a few posts back. She's where it all began. I knew I wanted to be a teacher even way back then.

My first grade teacher was Mrs. Oliver. She was strick but an excellent teacher just the same. She is the teacher that really made me love reading. We learned phonics in first grade (I don't think they teach it anymore, which is a shame), and I loved every minute of it. All we did was read. This is what I wanted more of. Math was so easy for me that I loathed doing it. I'd much rather read a book.

Second grade is in the post prior to this one. No need to rehash it.

My third grade teacher was Miss Tariska. She was also very tall and thin and wore glasses, like Mrs. Imbro, only she had short brown hair. She was soft spoken, caring, and fun to be around. She was the first woman I had ever seen that didn't have a chest. I thought she'd had an operation and had to have her breasts removed (I knew some women had to have this done for some reason), but I later found out that that, of course, wasn't true. She was simply an A cup. It's funny the little things you remember. We did a lot of math that year, and I got to tutor Tommy, my crush from kindergarten, that year. I learned to like math a lot.

My fourth grade teacher was Ms. Knopick. I didn't like her. My mom didn't like her either. The main thing I remember about her is that she used to wear 2 pairs of pantyhose, both of them ripped, to supposedly make one complete pair. Yeah, weird, I know. She was mean and cranky and she didn't really like children. What finally got my mom super pissed off at Ms. Knopick was when she found out that she gave us birthday whacks. Yeah, for our birthdays "as a treat", she would bring us up to the front of the class, and give us 10 whacks on the ass with her hand (for the 10 years we'd been alive), and then she'd pinch our ass for a year to grow on. I shit you not. When my mom found out, she hit the roof. She went in and ripped Ms. Knopick a new one. Needless to say, Ms. Knopick didn't give my younger sister her birthday whacks two years later when she was in her class.

In fourth grade, we also got to switch classes for the first time, too, so I actually had two teachers, the other being Mr. Mickalovich. He taught us science and math. He was an excellent teacher. And we really liked getting to go to another classroom (if for nothing more than to get away from birthday-whack-lady). I remember him asking us one day if any of us knew the 2 national languages of Canada. Well, I had just been to Canada for my cousin's engagement party, and I distinctly heard people speaking Italian and Spanish while I was there. So I bravely raised my hand and answered his question (I was wrong, of course). He didn't make me feel stupid about it; he just told me that was a good guess.

In fifth and sixth grade, we got to have 4 teachers: Mr. Moyher for science, Mr. Sabados for Social Studies, Miss O'Connor for math, and Miss Sutherland for English.

Mr. Moyher was my fifth grade homeroom teacher. He was a weird guy. He used to have jars of sheep's brains and other disgusting things in the back of the room. He also swore he saw bigfoot and used to show us a picture of some guy in a bigfoot costume. He used to have a mint plant in the front of the classroom he'd let us eat off of. He drove an Izuzu Trooper; I can't believe I remember that. My older sister and my younger sister also had him for a teacher. And one of the last days of elementary school, during our last one on one meeting with our teachers, he told me I was never going to amount to anything because of the friends I had (one friend in particular). I had liked him up until that day. What a terrible thing to say to a student. I always thought he didn't like me because I excelled at all of my other classes except science. It just didn't grab my interest. It wasn't that I tried any less in the class; I just didn't get it back then. I later grew to love science (well, some of it, anyway).

Mr. Sabados used to sneeze into his hands and then immediately run his hands through his hair. We used to guess at how much snot was actually lurking in there. We always said he never needed gel. We were both memsmerized and repulsed by this weird quirk. Mr. Sabados taught us about Europe most of the time. We had these cool maps of Europe that had been laminated so you could write on them with markers. We used them nearly every day. He also taught us how to play chess, which is a very cool thing for a teacher to do. I will always thank him for that.

Miss O'Connor was my sixth grade homeroom teacher. She used to be a nun. She used to sing to people when they weren't paying attention, i.e. "[insert child's name}, I am calling yooooooooouuuuuuu-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh!" Used to drive us mad. She used to make it a point that you never went "over" someone's house, you went "to" their house and demonstrated by drawing a house on the board and showing a stick figure jumping over the house and walking into the house. We did SRA on Fridays and one group used to get to play Oregon Trail at the old-as-shit computer at the back of the class. She had a mean streak, but she was a good teacher nonetheless.

And last, there was Miss Sutherland. I wanted to be just like her. Have you seen Mona Lisa Smile? She looked like one of those teachers. She wore her hair the same way everyday with these big swoops in it and all secured in a bun at the back. She never wore makeup. She had beautiful, fluid handwriting that she used to coat the blackboards with everyday. And she made me love writing. She taught us not only to write stories but to write poetry, as well. She was always so giving, helping each student revise each piece they wrote. Every single piece for every single student for the entire two years I was in her class. She was never harsh or cruel. She always made us feel at ease, and we all loved going to her class. I remember finding out in high school that she was a lesbian, and I saw her and her partner at one of my plays. She still looked exactly the same.

Backtracking a little into the second grade again

I had precognitive dreams through all of second grade. Every day, I would go to school and have this feeling of deja vu, like we had already done what we were doing the day before. It never really spooked me out until I was much older and realized what had happened that entire year.

Everything felt familiar, even the next chapter of the book that Mrs. Dorman was reading to us, which was James and the Giant Peach. I kept thinking to myself, "Didn't she read us that chapter yesterday?" I never knew what the ending of the book was, just the next chapter, one chapter at a time.

I went home sick numerous days that year; I constantly had headaches. Both the nurse and my mom were sympathetic about the headaches; Mom has them, too.

And even though I wasn't there a lot of the time, I excelled at my studies that year. There wasn't a math problem I couldn't do. I surprised everyone with how quickly I was picking everything up.

I remember my mom helped me write my first "research paper" on lions or cheetas or maybe just big cats in general. We had a set of encyclopedias at home, and we got most of the info out of that. I remember the two of us at the kitchen table finding out all these new and interesting facts about cats, and my mom helping me to construct complete sentences and paragraphs. We put it all in a yellow folder, and we put a picture of a big cat on the cover. That one got an A+.

I remember singing very loudly at the holiday pageant that year, wearing my old bride costume my mom had made for Halloween a couple years earlier. Someone somewhere has video footage of that concert cuz I remember getting to watch myself sing.

We did a mixture of Christmas, Hanukkah, and non-denominational holiday music that year since Mrs. Dorman was Jewish. She was always trying to incorporate all the holidays together so we could learn that there were more than just Christians in the world. We sang "Silent Night", "Dreidel Spin", and "Snoopy and the Red Baron" that year. We learned to make a cork-popping sound by plucking the sides of our mouth with our fingers for the Snoopy song. We all got such a kick out of that.

Then on St. Patrick's Day, she brought in green bagels for all of us. I remember fearing they would taste like spinach or broccoli or something, but they were just plain ole bagels made with food coloring. We learned a little bit about the Irish that year, potatoes and leprechauns and such (hey, we were 7; she wasn't gonna tell us about the wars and the famine, etc).

Mrs. Dorman always wanted to teach us about the whole world, as much as the school system would let her. She felt it was important for us to know that there were all kinds of people out there, very much unlike us, and that having knowledge of that would help us to not pass judgement or condemn people so quickly for their lifestyles and beliefs. Mrs. Dorman was also the only teacher in the school that was divorced.

Oh, I almost forgot. THE BEN STORY. Ben sat next to me for awhile that year. I think he was on Ritalin, one of two boys who were taking the drug because they were so hyperactive. Ben always made me laugh; he was definitely the class clown. So one day, Ben brought in a pair of wax teeth. He was wearing them during class. After a while, Mrs. Dorman asked him to put them away, but he refused. By 2:30, she was at her wit's end and demanded that he hand them over until the end of class. He got up from his seat, ran for the side door, and left the building. The principal was called, along with the few male teachers we had. For the next half-hour, we watched from our classroom window as Mr. Moyher and Mr. Mickalovich chased Ben around the school. When we were dismissed at 3, Ben was still going strong. None of us wanted to leave. He was finally caught around 3:15 by Mr. Moyher when he tripped and fell.

Second grade was also the year Kyle L. moved into town, right across the street from Krissy. Oh, he was cute. I had such a crush on him. I even invited him to my MacDonald's birthday party. He ended up being the only boy there, but he sure as hell didn't mind. He was the center of attention that whole day. He moved away again the next year. I wonder where he is now.

Second grade ended with a horrible case of the chicken pox for both me and M. We had to go to D's high school graduation party covered in spots, and my dad dragged us to Riverside Amusement Park like that, too, because my cousins from Canada were visiting and he had promised them he'd take them. He never promised us that. He never took us to any amusement park. So there we were, under the scorching sun, itching like crazy and crying our eyes out. We ended up sunburned and our chicken pox lasted even longer than they were supposed to. And we both ended up with scars on our faces from those damn things.

Getting into trouble

I remember the first time I got into trouble at school. It was first grade, Mrs. Oliver's class. We were supposed to be doing our Phonics, and, for some reason, I decided to do my work on the back of a notice we were supposed to bring home to our parents. We were NOT supposed to write on these notices. When Mrs. Oliver asked me what I was doing, I freaked out and shoved the notice to the back of my desk cubbyhole. She asked me to bring up what I was writing on, so I fished around in my desk for something else that had writing on it. I found my guesses for the heights of 3 fellow students (it was a contest we were having) and brought it up to her. She told me I was supposed to be working on Phonics, ripped up my guesses, and told me I would not be allowed to participate in the contest. I was so ashamed.

In second grade, we had a subsitute one day. While playing 7-Up, I got into trouble for pointing at my friend, Krissy, pretending I had picked her. The substitute yelled at me in front of everyone. She later took my ruler away from me when I playfully snapped it while Krissy was walking by my desk. I had to ask my teacher, Mrs. Dorman, for my ruler back the next day and explain why it had been taken.

In third grade, we had a stack of index cards with our vocabulary words written on them to study from in our desks. When it was time to study, I went to get my vocabulary cards out of my cubbyhole, but they weren't where I left them. I started pulling books out to see if they had somehow slipped behind them or something. They weren't there. I quietly started to cry because I had lost them. Eventually I found them later on in the day. They must have gotten stuck in a book or binder or something.

The story of me

I've decided that maybe it's time to start recording my story. My whole story. From my earliest childhood memories to what I'll be having for breakfast this morning. I'm sure it's gonna take awhile, but, hey, I got time. And at least I'll have something to write about for the next few weeks.

I'm thinking about trying to write the majority of it in chronological order. Of course, I can change my mind halfway into it. I am a woman, after all.

So here's my story:

In the Beginning

My first memory is of me on my dad's shoulders in the brown family room. The brown family room is still so vivid in my mind it's scary (both having the memory and the brown family room in general). I must have been around 3 or 4 years old because the room had just been built. The whole room wasn't actually brown, just the walls and the sofas. The heavy curtains were blue and the carpeting was this strange mixture of grays and blues. Both those things are gone now. To this day, that room still has ugly brown paneling on the walls. So '70s. We also had these brown sectional sofas, and I remember there were actually 2 pieces (chair size) that were placed back to back in the middle of the room. Who's idea was that? Anyway, Dad's seat was in the corner, the best seat in the house, naturally. While we were watching TV, I'd always climb up onto his shoulders and watch from there.

My next memory is of me and my sister, M, playing. Again, I was probably 4 and M was 2. We must have just seen a movie of people in bed together because I remember the two of us getting into my bed after taking a bath and making kissing noises and touching each other's bums. Hey, we were kids... kids do strange things.

I remember trying to look up my mom's nightgown around this time, too, and her getting very angry with me for doing so. I was an extremely curious child. I remember seeing my Dad's bum while he was getting dressed one day and being completely grossed out. I think I was trying to see if my mom's bum looked like my dad's.

M and I were obsessed with seeing naked people ever since we got cable, but we were always more intrigued with naked women because we wanted to know what we'd look like when we finally got big. I remember being absolutely amazed by breasts. They were just so pretty.

This was also around the time that I realized that my sister, D, hated me. No, she really did. She'll even admit it now. She hated me. She had been an only child until I came along 10 years later. Who the hell did I think I was horning in on her show?

She let me suck on permanent markers. She also made me pick up an entire box of rice krispies that had fallen on the carpet with my hands instead of getting the vacuum cleaner out. She and her friends laughed at me when I reached to pick something up off the floor and my underwear was showing under my skirt.

This leads to the tale my mother absolutely loves to tell people, the day D left me home alone. I was 5, and my friend, Krissy, had come over after school. Around 3:30pm, D's new boyfriend showed up at the house. D then took Krissy and me aside and told us that she and her boyfriend were going to go for a walk. She said they'd be back soon, but in the meantime, I was to answer the door when her old boyfriend showed up. I was to tell him she wasn't home.

They left. Krissy and I played for a while. Then the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and there was D's old boyfriend. I told him D wasn't home. He asked where she was. That was when I spotted the gun in the car. It was sitting on the middle console. I told him D had left about an hour ago, and I didn't know where she was. Then he left.

I closed and locked the door. Another half hour passed, and D hadn't come home yet. By that time, Krissy and I were really scared. We didn't know what to do. So I called my mom, and told her that D hadn't come home yet. Mom told me she'd be home in a few minutes.

My mom must have flown home. She worked about 6 or 7 miles away, but it seemed like I had just hung up the phone and there she was in front of me. We were crying and scared, and we blurted out the whole story to my mom.

About half an hour later, D finally came back to the house. She was, shall we say, VERY surprised to see my mom's car in the garage. When my mom asked her where she had been, she told her that she was in the backyard the whole time. When my mom asked her why she didn't come back into the house after the old boyfriend had left, D had no answer. After a huge fight, we came to find out that D and her new boyfriend had taken a walk around the block and had hung out in the woods that are on the other side of the back street behind the house. I GUESS you could call that the backyard.

During this fight, my sister called my mom a bitch, and my mom struck her with one of those spikey curling irons. It was a very bad day.

If my sister didn't all-out hate me before this incident, she surely did after it.

Hey, in my defense, I was 5. And the dude had a gun.

That's all for today.

Mabon

Also called Harvest Home or simply Autumn Equinox, this holiday is a ritual of thanksgiving for the fruits of the earth and a recognition of the need to share them to secure the blessings of the Goddess and God during the winter months. from Wikipedia

Sister Spikey Mace wrote about Mabon this morning, as well. Go check out her post; it's an excellent one.

I noticed that the Autumn Equinox was soon approaching via my lovely faerie calendar I have hanging up in my cube, but I felt it coming, as well. It's around this time of the year that I start to sleep in more in the mornings and simply have a sense of loss? depression? longing? wistfulness? (ok, maybe it's not that simple). I just don't feel like I'm all there, ya know? Like a part of me is missing. And I don't know where to look for it.

This feeling eventually goes away as it gets colder. Then Harry and I sit around drinking hot apple cider and cuddling up under our faux fur blanket to veg out in front of the TV. Suddenly, I feel full, no, more than full, like spilling over the brim. I get that feeling of "my cup runeth over" as Thanksgiving and Christmas stroll around.

Yet it's this time now, mid-September to mid-October, that always gets me down. I have no desire to do anything. I wonder where I went to. I get these extremely strong creative urges with no energy surges to play them out. This is the time when I long for the old me, the girl who wrote poetry and painted her fingernails black. The girl who sat in coffee shops, having a smoke and waxing philosophic about why our hearts must break.

Thankfully, this melancholy will be gone soon. For now, since I don't feel like creating, I'll share some lovely creations in celebration of Mabon. I love the google image tool.

Can you tell which one is me?

Picture 1: Kindergarten - from left to right:
Top Row: Cyndi, Paulino, Kristine, Mark, Amy, ME!, and Mrs. Imbro
Middle Row: Donald, Todd?, Tom, David, Andriana, Dave, and Jennifer?
Bottom Row: Leighann (and her poor, broken arm), Brandi, Steve, Tony, Heather, and Debby

Picture 2: First Grade - from left to right:
Top Row: Todd? (another Todd?), Marissa, Tristan, Suzanne, Tom, Andriana, Jon, and Mrs. Oliver
Middle Row: Chris, Steve, Jason, Mike, Justin, Kristine, and Paul
Bottom Row: Heather, Christine, Jen, Janet, ME!, and David
Seated: Ben and Tony

Surprisingly enough, I went to school with most of these people for years, which is why I still remember their names. I even went to college with a few of them, and I still keep in contact with a handful. Many of them still live in our little town, so I see them at the local supermarket from time to time, as well. It's funny how small towns work.

Take Cyndi for instance. We've known each other since we were 5 years old. We still get together whenever Jess comes home. That's 23 years of friendship.

As Harry and I were going through some of his old pictures a couple of years ago, I spotted one of Cyndi around age 5. Yep, Harry's known Cyndi just as long as I have, yet we never knew of each other's existence until about 5 years ago.

It may be a small world, but it's an even smaller town. Sometimes it's comforting, other times it's downright creepy.

I demand eye care!

Insurance is a pain in my arse. If you're covered for say, vision, under the plan, and it actually says, "VISION: YES" on your ID card, then wouldn't you think that you were automatically covered for eye exams, glasses, and contacts? Well, not with my insurance carrier.

Harry and I have an appointment next week, but we decided to go in on Saturday to pick out new frames ahead of time. When we got there, the receptionist decided to call our insurance company right then and there so we'd know how much will be covered on our purchases. For some reason, the insurance provider couldn't find me and could only find Harry through the "medical" section of coverage. If vision isn't medical, what is it?

So they called again and spoke to someone else, and this person at least found me (I mean, geez, I'm the freakin' primary on it; how could they find Harry but not me?). Vision coverage still wouldn't come up. What is this horse crap? I checked it myself via their online service, and I got the info in 30 seconds. What's the deal?

So I checked again this morning (the coverage is outlined in black and white, same as it was before), and I called, as well, again receiving the same info via those stupid automated service things. I called my vision place back, and they said I might have one of those weird plans where you have to submit a reimursement form after the fact, which I find strange since Harry had this same insurance 2 years ago, and it went through on its own.

I don't really mind filling out the necessary paperwork and waiting for the money back, but at least give me some kind of heads up that that's what I'll need to do. With all the medical stuff I've had done this year, there's been no problem, but this damn $20 I get towards my eye exam is proving to be the thorn in my side. $1800 for an MRI... SURE! $300 for bloodwork... SURE! $20 to get your eyes checked out... oh, I'm not so sure.

I guess what I'm really ticked off about is the fact that my employers decided to switch insurance carriers for this year to try to save some money. I had a great insurance plan last year. It covered everything, no questions asked. Doctors' offices would see that card, and suddenly, I was royalty. Now they see this new card, shudder at a mere glimpse of it, and banish me in the corner until they can squeeze me in. Ok, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. They actually give me a condescending look now due to the insurance I have. "Oh, you have C----, I'm so sorry!" C---- is definitely the red-headed stepchild of the insurance world.

So now I have to see if my inadequate HR department has any reimbursement forms for me to fill out, and possibly see if they know of anyone else in the company who's had this problem. Maybe if we complain enough about the new coverage, they'll get a better provider. After all, the big boys have to use this insurance, too. Maybe after this passed year, even if they don't think their employees need better care, they'll realize their families do. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Saturday mornings

Harry's at work this morning. Sadness. He got up at 5am on a Saturday to work. If that's not insanity, I don't know what is.

He started his new position at his company on Monday. Since his old division is soon moving to Joliet, Illinois, we were really starting to worry that he wouldn't have a job come March when they bid us a fond adieux. He had found out about this new position back in May and immediately submitted a resume. He went on an interview a couple of weeks later, and it went well. They said they'd let him know their decision in one month's time. We hit July, and still no word. He asks HR what the deal is, and they tell him no decision has been made yet. August rears its head and still no word. Then ANOTHER interview is scheduled. After all is said and done, Harry gets a call at the end of that week to be told he has the job; he starts in 2 weeks.

Cue this Monday. He's now working in a print shop. He loves it. He's always loved being a machinist. It's what he did before 9/11. His company (an aerospace part manufacturer) closed a month after that tragic day when a multi-million dollar deal collapsed with one of the airlines involved in the 9/11 attacks. Harry had been working there since the day he graduated high school. He loved that job.

He was out of work for 6 months after that. Companies were closing left and right around here. Jobs were scarce. I, myself, was laid off a few months after he was. There we were, in a brand new relationship, both of us jobless, both of us trying to keep not only clothes on our backs and food on the table but the very roofs over our heads. When his unemployment was about to run out, he decided to take a seasonal job as a landscaper at a local retirement community condo complex (say that five times fast) for $4 LESS an hour than what he had been making before.

Luckily, since he's such a hard worker, they realized what he could do for this landscaping company and offered him a full-time job as a foreman a few months after he started working there. It came with a $1 an hour raise and benefits. He worked the whole summer, fall, and beginning of winter until we got word that a position was opening up at my old company that he could do. He so much wanted to get back into manufacturing and such, and this position would be a way to do it.

He was offered the job (I believe on Christmas Eve), and he took it not a moment too soon. Christmas morning we got a call from the landscaping company telling him he had to work all Christmas day, plowing the roads of the complex. Seems the town doesn't plow their roads for them since they're technically not town roads. Bullshit. I can understand each person having to go in for a couple of hours to get it done, but an 8 hour day? Man, call in all your non-Christian workers to plow that day. Harry told them he couldn't work all day, and they told him he'd better come in, or else. Or else what? So Harry told them he'd been offered another job, and he was taking it. Then they asked if he was still coming in. Yeah, right.

So, Harry's been at my old company for almost 3 years now. He likes it, for the most part. And he's been very excited about this new job. He loves the fact that he can get all this overtime in without any fuss (the higher-ups in the other division were sticklers about overtime). He calculated last night that if he can do 54-56 hour workweeks every week, he'll be making a shload more than I do. That makes him happy. That makes me happy, too. That's one step closer to paying off the cars and buying a house of our own.

I miss him. Saturday mornings have always been my favorite time with him. I guess we'll have to have our SUNDAY morning ritual from now on.

"When you dream, what do you dream about?"

From School of Metaphysics: Your dreams tell you about your present state of awareness; this is why we dream. Dreams come from an inner place we call the subconscious mind and are presented to you in images which, when interpreted in the Universal Language of Mind, become personally relevant to you and your life. The meaning of these nighttime messages can literally change your life.
When studying dreams and learning to interpret them, you need to know the two universal principles which apply to everyone, everywhere, at all times. The first of these principles is that every dream is about the dreamer. The second principle is that every person, place and thing in the dream is the dreamer. We as human beings are very multi-faceted. A great majority of us are only aware of a small part of who we are. You can learn to expand your awareness of yourself by learning to interpret your dreams.

From a post By Michael Sheridan: Dreams come from your soul and are intended to help you progress along your life path. In sleep the focus of the physical world and the body is on hold and during this period your soul has a perfect opportunity to dialogue with your conscious mind... or so it would appear. The problem here is that the subconscious never sleeps. Think of the subconscious like a faithful dog always on guard to protect its master. Your soul asks the conscious mind to make a change to some aspect of functioning in order to avoid a particular undesirable outcome. Let's take a very common example. Say your soul wants you to be less analytical / rational in your approach to life and to incorporate intuition / feelings into the decision making process. It dispatches a dream for this purpose. Ideally the dream is received and your conscious mind accepts the direction of your soul and begins a program to change in this direction. The more likely outcome, however, is that your subconscious mind asserts itself in the dream and provides all sorts of reasons why this change should be avoided. Due to this, the message / request in the dream is effectively spoiled.

I've always tried to read into my dreams. I think they're important. I think they are a part of me, not necessarily an important part, but a part nonetheless.

I've had significant dreams, ones that were premonitions to something that would soon occur. I've been able to separate these dreams from the everyday static my mind creates while I sleep.

Then there are the absurd dreams, ones where people I know are doing strange and bizarre things, like riding down the road on a big cantaloupe or telling me I can't go to work because the Pope is calling. These are my favorite kind of dreams to have, mostly because even though there is a lot of activity going on in them, I always wake up feeling very refreshed and happy. These dreams make me smile. My creative side obviously takes over on the evenings I have these dreams, and I think she likes to flex those muscles once in a while.

There are also the scary dreams, my B-Horror-Movie dreams. These dreams usually take place in a familiar setting, and the cast is made up of people I know. I am always the main character, but I never look like me. We're always being chased by someone or something, it is always dark, and we are constantly afraid. I wake up exhausted after one of these dreams, like I've just run 10 miles. My heart beats frantically, and there are times when I've woken up crying. I've gotten hurt a few times in these dreams, and the pain seems real while I'm asleep, although it quickly dissipates upon waking. I don't have these too often, but Harry knows when I've had one. I usually jerk awake, wide-eyed and terrified. It takes me a minute to realize not only WHERE I am but WHO I am. I've had these dreams all my life, and I attribute them to the fact that I am still afraid of the dark at 28.

I also have a few reoccuring dreams, which also happen to be B-Horror-Movie dreams. I had most of these dreams growing up, although one of them still creeps into my head from time to time now. There was the octopus dream and the 3rd floor fire dream I had while growing up that I haven't had in years now, and then there is the clown/troll/gremlin-type thing that chases me through my grandparents' house dream I'm still, unfortunately, afflicted with.

And lastly, I have what I call the left-field dreams. These are dreams about people or places from my past. They're usually very emotional, and I've never been able to find a reason for having them when they occur. I wake up confused and drained. And sometimes I wake up feeling guilty.

Does everyone dream about people they were once intimate with? I'm curious to know. Do these people come back into your lives through your dreams like he does mine? I feel like my mind is being invaded. The dream even seems to linger after I wake up.

I want to know why he's still here, in my head. I want to know why he won't go away. It's almost like being haunted, yes, it's exactly like being haunted... haunted by the ghost of the person you once knew. Both of us are ghosts, merely apparitions of the people we used to be, in these dreams.

I wouldn't mind a little Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind action right about now. I need to mentally kick his ass out; he's worn out his welcome.

Good Times, Good Times

It was a good weekend. I had gotten a message from Jess the Saturday before last, telling me that she was coming into NYC for work from the 6th to the 10th, and, wonder of wonders, her boss told her she could come to CT for the weekend and fly back to the office Monday morning. Woo hoo!

She got in on the Metro-North Saturday afternoon and gave me a buzz. I drove a whole 1/2 mile to her mom's house where she, Tara, and I stuffed ourselves with Marie's pasta and meatballs. We drank copious amounts of wine, bullshat, and ended the evening feeling SO Golden Girls after Marie (Jess's mom) invited the mother of an old friend from elementary school over to chew the fat and catch up on gossip. After ranting about taxes, real estate prices, and the ever-increasing gas prices, I called it a night and left Jess to defend for herself (sorry, hon!).

Sunday evening, the lot of us (Lea, Jen, Jess, Tara, and I) ventured on over to Archie Moore's for a few drinks. There was no herd that evening (I guess Archie's has been slow), so we got to pick pretty much any table on the patio we wanted. We decided to steer clear of the birthday party that was going on in the back corner and settled ourselves in at a table in the corner opposite the little shindig.

We ordered a round from our less-than-charming waiter (who obviously thought muttering snide comments under his breath or repeating the drink order back in a haughty and accusing tone, i.e. "I'll have a Jack and Coke with a lime, little ice" repeated back in the manner of "OK, you're the lesbian at the table; which one is your bitch?" is a pleaser with the ladies). We drank and laughed and ate and laughed and snapped some pictures and drank and laughed some more. Good times, good times.

I, unfortunately, had a premonition

Wednesday morning, 4am. The phone rings. No, I won't pick it up. The caller ID says it's my sister. I DEFINITELY won't pick it up. The flashing image I had right before I fell asleep crosses my mind again. Shit. Hello? Dad called an ambulance. He's going to the hospital.

Less than 10 minutes later, I arrive at the emergency room. The nurse takes me to my sister, who is in tears. There was some kind of incident with the paramedic. The nurses had him leave he was upsetting everyone so much.

We sit and wait. We hear the words "26% Congestive Heart Failure".

Not again.

M says his blood sugar level was 388 last night. Holy crap.

He called the ambulance because he couldn't breathe and his chest was tight.

After changing their minds about a million times about what they want to do, the doctors move him to MICU. We follow him upstairs and wait some more. Finally, he is settled, we talk to his nurse, and then leave him to rest a little. He's supposed to be going in for a Pulmonary-Artery Catheter.

Me, I have to go to work. M takes school off that morning for lack of sleep. I go to work blurry-eyed and in a daze. At 5, my boss sees me and asks what's wrong. I'm sent home to see how Dad's doing. My boss is a good man.

My sister has been elected the person who calls the hospital for updates; MICU asks that all families do this. I haven't heard from her all day. I managed to call my mom and my other sister to tell them what's going on, as far as I know. Finally, at 6, after still not hearing from my sister, I toss out the rules and call the hospital myself. The catheter has been rescheduled for tomorrow because Dad's blood is too thin from the new meds he's been taking. Harry and I go to visit; he looks better. He has been very accepting and compliant all day. He's finally listening to the doctors when they say he needs a pacemaker. I think he's finally scared.

The next day rolls around. My boss tells me to immediately go home when I show up for work. I tell him I'll stick around for a few hours, seeing as I can't do anything at the hospital while he's getting the catheter done. My boss tells me to leave as soon as Dad's out of the procedure.

The doctors are going in to see if the quintuple bypass performed 9 years ago has deteriorated. Since my dad didn't give up smoking or drinking after his first, second, or third heart attack, they're afraid for the worst. They go in and find that all the work is holding up fine. Life is full of surprises.

After hearing this bit of information, my father suddenly becomes non-compliant. He gives the nurses and doctors a hard time. He wants to go home. He's thinking about not getting the pacemaker. Dammit all to hell but he is such a pain in the ass.

The doctors tell him he can go home on Saturday and then come back on Wednesday for the pacemaker. He's grouchy about it but agrees to it. On Friday, the doctors decide they don't want to release him. They feel he would be better off there with nurses at his side until the pacemaker's put in. Dad agrees to it... at first.

Sunday morning, he calls my sister and demands she come get him right now. He leaves the hospital. He's been home since.

Luckily, he's still going in for the pacemaker this morning. He's there right now. I've developed a cold over the passed few days, so I haven't been able to see him. And I won't be able to see him for the next week. I just hope I didn't transfer the bug to him BEFORE I knew I was sick.

My sister had it out with him on Sunday. He expects too much from her. I agree. She is not his mother or his wife. He was such a cruel bastard to her on Sunday as she ran around picking up his meds and getting him settled at home.

The way I see it, she doesn't owe him a damn thing. He left us when we were children. He never offered us love, only critizisms. I've learned to care about my father but not to get too close because, well, he bites the hand that feeds him continuously.

I've prepared myself for something like this to happen over the years. Something like this is inevitable when someone is given a second and third chance to fix things and they don't. The doctors have told him over and over again that the drinking and smoking will be the death of him, but he won't listen. He still holds that child-like mentality that he will live forever.

M has not prepared herself at all. My father has always been a very strong and willful man. Nothing seems to stop him. So when this happens, it knocks her for a loop. She sat and cried while I just sat. It's not that I don't care; everyone knows that I do, even though they have told me not to time and time again. It's just that I know that this is how it's going to happen.

It has been a horrible week. More later.

K turned 9 years old yesterday. 9 years old! And she's starting freakin' 4th grade today. Quick, get me my walker.

I felt it even more so when J turned 16 this passed summer. Wasn't I just 16? I was her nanny, for crying out loud. I watched The Little Mermaid with her every day of the summer of 1992. Every damn day! We had a regular morning lineup, too. Sesame Street and Barney on channel 13-PBS, followed by old 21 Jumpstreet and Batman (with Adam West and Burt Ward) reruns on channel 11 before it became the WB. The Little Mermaid was saved for later in the day after lunch and a dip in the pool. How is she suddenly ready to drive? And she's taken college courses, too. That kid's gonna have more credits by the end of high school than I have now.

But I digress. We had a little party for K last night, complete with pizza, presents, and Italian cake (oh-so-good). The kid got a shload of new clothes for school (most August and September kids would bitch about getting clothes for their birthdays but K looked like she was about to go into fashion overload), an entirely new bedroom revamped by her mom this weekend while she was at her grandmother's house (surprise!) and a ticket to go to Florida with my Mom. The elation on her face-- I wish I could bottle it and drink it myself. I think I would live forever if I could do that.

Her bedroom is absolutely gorgeous. This isn't the first time my sister has redone the room as a surprise for K, but the last time, the room was a bit extreme. She had painted the walls hot pink. Yeah, hot pink walls in a 9X10 room. My claustrophobia always got to me whenever I went in there. And she had painted sections of the white bedroom set hot pink and bright purple. Pink and purple paint over a white lacquered dresser-- it was not too pretty. I think the paint could have been scratched off with a fingernail. K was 4 though, and she thought it was just so cool.

I think the pink finally started to get to her because when my sister started to redecorate the rest of the house, she asked if she could do her room, as well. M told her eventually, but that she was busy at the moment. K accepted that and waited for the day when her mom would not be so busy. Little did she know that M had a plan all along.

She had told me she was going to paint the room blue and green with a chair rail to separate the two colors. As long as the colors weren't too dark, I thought that would look very nice. Then as the neighbors were moving out last week, they mentioned that they had some wainscoting lying around that they didn't need and if anybody wanted it, they could have it. M grabbed that stuff as fast as she could and got to work. All Saturday and Sunday, M cleared the room out, put up the wainscoting, painted, stenciled, moved the furniture back in, hung new curtains and mini-blinds, put new bedding on, and even fixed the closet door that had been broken for the passed 6 years. She ended up painting the top portion of the wall light blue and the wainscoting white. The place looks like a room in a doll house, complete with patchwork quilt at the end of the bed.

Needless to say, the kid was floored by it.

When I got home from work last night and went upstairs, she immediately showed me her room. She showed me every new thing that had been done to it one at a time. At the end of the evening, she said that it was definitely the best present she got this year.

That kid is really something. I like her; I think I'll keep her.

Who DOESN'T like to be hit on?

Shenry just reminded me of something that happened years ago that's still a boost to my ego to this very day.

I believe it was Kev, Mike, Tom, and me at Bennigan's probably 4 or 5 years ago, before I met Harry. We had met there after I had gotten out of work, as usual, to have a few drinks and some stimulating conversation. We were probably on our 3rd beer of the evening when the guys noticed a very attractive young woman sitting across the bar. She looked to be around our age, and she was with 2 or 3 other girls having a few drinks, just like us.

The guys couldn't get over how fine this female was. I was used to hearing them talk, and occasionally, I would even get involved in the conversation. This was one of those times.

Both Kevin and Mike claimed she had been looking at them. I told them they were crazy; a chick like that would have no use for either of them (heh heh). A few minutes later, though, it became apparent that that she was, indeed, staring in their general direction, although I couldn't tell which one of them she was staring at.

A few minutes passed by, and she just kept sneaking glances. I couldn't believe it; she actually WAS interested in one of them. Kev and Mike were ready to start placing bets on who it was when she made her move. At first I thought she was making her way over to the ladies room, but no, she was headed right for us.

I held my breath, shivering with anticipation as to which one she would choose. She approached us slowly, a cigarette, not yet lit, hanging between her lips. And then she spoke...

"Can I have a light?"

And she was asking ME. Yeah, ME. The guys jaws dropped.

I smiled and lit her cigarette for her. She smiled and said thanks.

And I dropped the ball and started laughing. Not at her but at the guys.

She held my gaze for a second (while I tried to get my laughter under control), tilted her head a little, smiled again, and then walked back over to her friends.

And the guys still had their mouths hanging wide open.

Classic.

A real, live letter!

A couple of weeks ago, I had a few minutes at work all to myself, so I sat down and wrote a letter. Yes, a real, live letter on paper with a pen in my crappy, crazy print/script. I even made a copy of it to keep with all my old letters. Have you ever done that before? Made a copy of your own letter to keep so you could read it later on?

I wrote the letter to Jess, who has always been THE letter writer. I have tons of old letters from our college days in an old photo box which I took out recently and reread, laughing my full head off. I miss those days. I guess I wanted a little piece of that back.

So here is the letter, pretty much in its entirety. No need to read it if you don't feel like it; there's lots of inside jokes only Jess and I will get:

Hey there Chica-

When's the last time one of us did this? Oh, the days of writing letters and enclosing little magazine clippings or photocopied pictures of Scott Weiland (which I still have, by the way). Where did those days go? I remember both my eagerness and greediness, ripping into those homemade envelopes, feasting my eyes on pages of your print/script thoughts. I came across a HUGE bundle of your letters from our college days not too long ago; they were neatly elasticed together, still in the envelopes they came in. Kevin's letters from the Navy were in there, too. I read through a few of yours, trying to recall who this boy was and where I was in my life then. I noticed my name changes on the envelopes from V----- to C------ back to V-----, and the address changes, as well, from ** Catherine to *** N------. There were quite a few about A+; it took me a while to remember his real first name. I wish I had some of the letters I wrote back; I wonder what faerytale lies I was spinning as my first marriage was being flushed down the toilet (and no, your dad didn't have his finger on the handle for that one, heh heh). I have the distinct feeling that I would laugh ferociously at my younger self. She thought she was so smuckin' fart.

I came across a padded envelope filled with goodies from you, too. Inside, there was a letter you wrote to Tom and me. I remember the day that package arrived. I called him up right away, and he came racing over. I remember the two of us spending hours going through each individual thing you had sent, and the both of us getting so excited when we found you had sent doubles of a few things with each of our names neatly printed on the back. I still have my lovely laminated copy of "The Gospel According to Luke"; I proudly displayed it in my cube here at work for some time.

I don't know why I've felt the need for so much introspection and reminiscences these passed few months; maybe it was the MRI, maybe it was the gray hair. Maybe I miss the good ole days when you were still on the right coast or when we spoke at least once a day when you were out in L.A. I still can't believe we managed to talk as much as we did then; when did we find the time to work?

I think back on all these things, but instead of really longing for them, they simply put a smile on my face. These two girls were absolutely crazy, yet they thought they had everything under control. I think that makes me laugh the most.

I miss days at Beans Cuisine drinking coffee, writing poetry, talking and laughing (and making fun of the herd at Archie's - well, until the day we finally ventured over there ourselves and became two of the cows in the sea of bulls). I remember going there with Jen D. and Michael Mouse and that one time we took Audra there.

I remember even further back to our high school days and going to Marnick's after a morning of finals. How many times did we do that? I remember Saturdays visiting you at The Pouch and Chinese Fire Drills on the exit ramp on our way to the "Hamlet" cast party. That was the night I tried weed for the first time and either you or Kristen wanted one munchkin at D&Ds. The same night you laughed your ass off about eyebrows while there was a cop sitting behind us the whole time. I still can't believe we didn't get busted that night.

Then there was that night we stole away from my house for a late showing of "Interview with a Vampire", which I will always somehow associate with "the stakeout". They happened around the same time because I remember parking in front of your house after the movie, hoping the guy would drive by. Were we on crack?

I can go back even further to Saturdays at Our Lady of Grace followed by a walk to WaWa's for FijiFruits and vegging out in front of the TV watching "Dr. Fad" and "I'm Telling". Yeah, I sometimes forget that I'm 28 and not 27, but i will forever remember the sweatshirt of Wacky Wall-Walkers. Funny what our brains retain.

I remember when we first met in Mr. Moyher's class, and you thought Dan and I were brother and sister. I remember Sean sporting his proton pack. I remember "Hominy grits do you think there are?" I remember that God-awful picture of me and M in my room holding my Pound Purry you took all those years ago which I now always associate with the mountain of Frosted Flakes, even though those two events happened years apart. That was the day Trezbo and Ozbert were born while we were playing MTV's Remote Control on my Nintendo.

I hope this little stroll down memory lane is putting as big a smile on your face as it is on mine. I think I'll even photocopy this letter so I can read it again years from now. Will I still remember all of these things? How many more gray hairs will I have? Which state will you be living in? How far away are we now from where we thought we would be then? I am most definitely not a teacher living in a cool city, with hordes of students hanging on my every word. That dream has long since died.

But I am happy. That part I got right.

I love ya, hon-
Alicia

I would laugh at myself

Harry was driving us up to his mom's new nursing home on Sunday for a visit. This is a rare occurrence, when Harry is the one driving. I like driving. I feel more comfortable behind the wheel. And I'll admit it, I'm a terrible passenger. I've come to find that I'm not the only woman like this. We feel a loss of control when merely observing things pass us by instead of being engaged continuously in the motion of the vehicle we're in. That's not to say that I'd like to learn how to fly a plane to get from point A to point B; I usually don't look out the window, so I'm not observing anything. I have this rare form of logic, see? It seems to only work in MY brain.

Anyway, we're driving along, and since it's Harry's car, he gets control of the radio dial. I sometimes let him have control of the dial in my car since we're in it so much, but we usually stick with the rule that if it's your car, you have complete control. Mwah ha ha!

So we're listening to '80s metal (on a radio station in these parts known as "The Bone"), and, of course, the volume is up. After driving for a few minutes, Harry realizes that the radio's maybe a little to loud for me and turns it down. I simply say, "thank you". He starts to laugh. This is an ongoing joke. Everything seems to be too loud for me nowadays-- the tv, the radio, the air condition, the dishwasher. My hearing seems to have gotten more acute as I age. 'Tis very strange.

He says, "What would your teenage self say to you if she met you today?" to which I replied, "I would laugh at myself."

It's true; I was one of those teenagers (and even during my early 20s) that blasted the radio in the car as I drove. I cranked it up to the top notch of the volume, and that STILL wasn't loud enough. People used to yell at me from outside my car for me to "turn it down!" I've been told I could wake up the dead with my car radio.

And then that all changed about 2 years ago. All of a sudden, everything was much too loud. It would actually hurt my ears to have the volume up any more than 3 notches. I'd listen to the TV low, so low that I could actually hear my sister's TV upstairs over my own. Oh, and the movie theatres! Don't even get me started. I think a deaf person could hear the dialogue through the vibrations in the floorboards.

I don't think I could go to a rock concert again. Sadness. I'll have to listen to sad songs and waltzes live for the rest of my days. No more Poison concerts for me.

It's really not that big a deal; it's just funny to see how much I've changed. 18-year-old Alicia wouldn't even believe that I'm her 10 years from her present. She just wouldn't. She'd say, "who is this lame-ass woman standing before me?" or something to that affect. I'm like the anti-Alicia, I'm nearly everything I said I would never be. Yet, the most interesting aspect of that is that I've managed to integrate all these new personality traits with most of the old ones.

There's still a little of the 18-year-old Alicia there; She's simply grown up and evolved. And then there are new pieces of me that came from out of left field. The changes-- my new fondness for plants and flowers (even if I still can't manage to keep them all alive), wearing my glasses all the time, regardless of how they look, wearing colors instead of black all the time (even flower prints!), having normal colored hair (no more pink or purple), quitting smoking, really getting into home decor, watching DIY shows on TV, finding an appreciation for the music my mother listens to, finding appreciation for my mother, the list goes on and on.

I just wouldn't believe that I'm me.

And the clincher...

Harry and I just purchased this---->



Freakin' fine china... in my home. The Earth must have stopped spinning.

And do you know what's funnier? Harry is more excited about the purchase than I am. I think his 18-year-old self would have a good, hearty guffaw at himself as well.

I am in an exceptionally good mood today!

Look-- exclamation points and everything! I woke up this morning feeling like a million bucks. I have no idea why. Maybe it's better not to question but just to enjoy.

I've been taking walks on my break at work this week. It's so beautiful outside, and I'm sick of being cooped up in the office all day. I think it's done me good.

I also just finished my first round of infertility meds yesterday. We'll see where this goes. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

We're going camping this weekend. I've already got the tent and air mattress out of storage, and Harry went and bought a new axe yesterday. The Home Depot = Harry's Candy Shop. He comes home with an axe AND an axe sharpener. I look at this useless piece of plastic that costs $9 and quickly ask, "Can't you just use a rock?" to which he, at first, replies, "No, this sharpener is made especially for this axe," and then changed his mind when he took a closer look at this "sharpener", realizing it's just a piece of crap and stated, "Yeah, I guess I can. I think I'm gonna return this." Yep, I thought so.

This will be my 3rd camping trip. Growing up, I was never one to "rough it" and camp out, even in the back yard. I hated getting dirty as a child (minus my feet on the black tar as I ran around barefoot all summer long). Sanitized nature was my motto.

And now, well, I STILL don't like to get dirty, but I do love being outdoors so much. I love the feel of the sun, the scent of the flowers and pines, the quiet of the woods, the aroma of a burning campfire. It makes me feel so at ease. And I don't mind a little work either. I like helping to pitch the tent and build up the fire.

I decided I wanted to go camping right after we got back from Maine. Being in the woods this passed weekend made me realized how much I missed it. I was at work on Tuesday, and I suddenly realized that camping season was almost over. We'd been talking about camping since this spring, but something always came up to prevent us from going. Since we had a free weekend this weekend, I thought "Why not?"

Given Harry likes to go camping for 3-4 day stretches, but we just don't have the time off for that (and I can only sleep on that air mattress 2 nights tops before my back punishes me for being so mean). He seems content with at least being able to go.

See you Monday!

Mini Vay-Kay

The trip to Maine this weekend was lovely. We saw an extraordinary amount of pine trees, traveled about 800 miles total, saw numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins (1st, 2nd, 3rd, great-, once-removed, the works), went shopping at the outlet stores (oh, the treasures we found) and at a few antique stores,as well, went swimming, and sat around the kitchen table shooting the shit.

We had a great time staying at a rented cottage with my mom, my sister and her guy, his niece and nephew, C and C, and, of course, K. M brought up the game Racko to play; she had seen it in the store and said she had to get it for old times' sake. We used to play for hours whenever we went to The Camp as children. It was one of our Maine rituals. When Harry and I got to the cottage, I saw it on the table. M and I sat down and played a few rounds immediately. We ended with a tie. She won the first two, I won the next two. When I suggested one more round to break the tie, she declined, saying it wasn't fun anymore now that she had lost. Ah, just like old times. K was excited to learn how to play since M and I liked the game so much. She caught on quickly. I'll have to get it so we can have it here to play on Sundays.

Everyone seems to be doing well. My aunt that turned 80 this weekend is starting to lose her memory, which just plain sucks. I visited with my Aunt R and Uncle R, whom I haven't seen in at least 10 years (yes, Jess, Aunt R who made me the dice bracelet). They're on their way to Alaska right now. How cool is that? They've always traveled a lot.

We got home last night, happy to be here once again. And the house is oh-so-quiet since the gang upstairs isn't coming back to CT until Friday. Bliss.

One Lazy Bitch

I could say that I've been busy, but really I've just been one lazy bitch.

My X-Files fixation has taken over my mornings. I'm almost done with Season 8.

I've even toyed with calling in sick one day so I can polish off Season 9.

I am a sad, little woman.

But I love Mulder and Scully.

David Duchovny, why won't you love me?

Ah, it's Friday!

And only one more week until I get to breathe in that fresh Maine air. I can't wait. I love going to Maine.

We used to go every summer growing up. It would be Mom, Dad, Melissa, and me and our family friends Marie, Joe, Jennifer, and Christina. It was usually for 2 weeks in July, staying at my grandmother's cottage (which we used to call "The Camp") in Waterville.

We had so much fun those summers. My parents were happy, my sister and I were happy; it was always so much fun. We looked forward to it every school year, even having to go visit our relatives while on vacation. Maybe this was because my relatives are so cool.

We'd always visit Aunt Pauline, who is celebrating her 80th birthday this month. We're having a celebration for her during the reunion this year. Aunt Pauline rocks. She makes the best homemade Blueberry muffins in the world and she owns like a million Hummel figurines. I loved her house in Fairfield so much. Alas, she doesn't live there anymore. Part of me wants to drive by it on this trip just to see it, even if I can't go inside. It was such a great little house.

We'd also visit Gramp Webb, Aunt Pauline's father, my great grandfather. Gramp Webb (Ranceford - isn't that a great name?) is by far the most amazing man I ever met. He was a minister for most of his life. Built his beautiful house with his own bare hands. He and my greatgrandmother (Mildred - whom I've been told was the kindest woman that ever lived by anyone who ever met her) lived in this house and had 3 children: my Uncle Bradford, who died at 14 in a tragic hunting accident, my grandfather, Manford, whom I never got to meet as he passed away a few years before I was born, and Aunt Pauline, whom they dubbed "Paulinaford" because all the menfolk had ford at the end of their name, and they didn't want to leave her out. Gramp Webb passed away my sophomore year of high school. It broke my heart.

We visited Aunt Pauline's Daughter, Cousin Linda, and her family, as well, on our trips up. There's her husband, Albert, and her two children, Michael and Tavia. Michael and Tavia are now both married and each have children as well, Michael with 2 and Tavia with, I think, 4 at last count. Visiting with them was my favorite part of the trip because almost everyone was there. Everyone would pile into Linda's house, and we'd have ourselves a good visit. We'd get to look through Linda's numerous photo albums (and you thing I take a lot of pictures!), have a barbeque, and go swimming in the pool.

We'd visit my Uncle Gary and Aunt Liz, as well. The have a fantastic house. Acres of lawn that go right down to the water's edge, rooms upon rooms inside the house, and a train set hooked up around the perimeter of the ceiling in the main room he'd always turn on for me. And there was Samantha, the coolest dog ever. My uncle loved her so much he had her name put on his personalized plates for his car. I cried when she died.

We'd go and see Grammy King, too, who is Uncle Gary's and my grandmother's mother. She only lived a few miles down the road from the camp. She had this little dog that just shook all the time. Looked like she was going to scare herself to death. She spent most of her time in her kennel. I guess she felt safer there. Grammy King was a funny, tough old broad. She used to make us laugh for hours. She passed away a few years ago at the age of 99. She was just 2 months shy of 100. She lived a very full life and had more love than most people know what to do with.

Last, we'd have to visit with my Aunt Alice, who is my grandmother's sister. She was really the only person Melissa and I didn't like to visit with. She had 2 very angry dogs she brought everywhere with her. We weren't allowed to touch them because they'd bite us. And then there's Aunt Alice. Man, she was touch back then. She was a Colonel in the U.S. Army. She ran with the Big Boys. Later, we found out from Mom (when she thought we were old enough to know) that Aunt Alice is a lesbian, but an ashamed lesbian who has hidden what she is from everyone and looks down on the gay community even to this day. The thing I remember most about Aunt Alice is the way she looked. She was short and waddled when she walked. She kept her hair short (it was black) and had a rather large nose. And she smoked with a black cigarette holder. Remind you of anyone?


We might actually be going to visit her on this upcoming trip. It depends on what kind of mood I'm in and if we decide to stay an extra day.

The rest of the trip was spent at the camp, cooking, swimming in the lake, playing on the swings (where Jennifer broke her arm one year). Or we'd go into Waterville to shop or see a movie or go to a restaurant. Oh, and to go play minigolf. Kim remembers minigolf. We took her and Chris up there one year after we'd finished high school. She won a free game. I wonder if that place is still there? I know the Rummle's is gone; it was an ice cream parlor next door to the minigolf place. Had the best blackberry ice cream ever made.

When Harry and I went to Maine a couple of years ago, we drove all the way over to Waterville from Camden just to see the camp. My Aunt Rhonda owns it now, and it's proven difficult to find a weekend when she's not using it so we can stay there. The camp was supposed to be for everyone, but that's not the way it panned out. It saddens me. My fondest memories of my childhood are locked up in that house. My Lincoln Logs, which were there waiting for me every year, were thrown out when my aunt took the house over. The swings are still there, as is Wendel, my mom's cousin who lives year-round two doors down. He's kind of like the street (and I use that term loosely seeing as it's really just a dirt road with no name) caretaker. I used to call him "Cousin Window" when I was little cuz I really thought that was his name. And when that song, "Mr. Wendel", came out on the airwaves, it always made me think of him. We saw him when I took Harry to the camp, and he waved at me. When I told my mom he couldn't have possibly known who I was, she said, "Oh, you'd be surprised. I bet he knew exactly who you were."

I remember wanting to live up in Maine growing up. It was just so beautiful. Now that I'm older, I realize it's just too damn cold for me to live up there. Harry still wants to. His family is from there as well, from a little town called Hallowell we went and checked out on our last trip. I loved this town. They don't have towns like that anymore. It's made up of one main street, maybe 6 blocks long. There's probably only 18 blocks total in the whole town. You could walk it in less than an hour. I love it.

I could go on and on about our adventures throughout the years, like our journey to Canada and scaling Cadillac Mountain, but I don't think I need to write down those memories just yet. They're all still fresh in my head. When I think I'm starting to forget them, I'll put them to paper. Until then, I'm going to make some new ones.

A Rite of Passage

I found my first grey hair last night! Fuck yeah! It's this beautiful silver strand, actually, almost like metallic thread. I love it.

I think I take after my grandma; she was completely grey by the time she was 30.

I searched the rest of my head for more, but I found just the one. And it's stayin'. I dig it.

Oh, This Whirlwind Romance

The traffic, teeming with desire,
Slowly edges its way
To its climactic destination,
Afraid of overheating before making it.

We are born onto the street,
Pushing our way forward
Through the sultry summer membrane
Of humidity and subway steam.

The sidewalks, a congestion
Of tourists and artists
Ebb and flow like heartbeats,
Surging with life and beauty and grace.

We scan the lumbering cityscape;
The sisters no longer there.
The Gemini of the horizon--
They fell to their knees.

Oh, this whirlwind romance--
Locked in a heavy embrace.

And I'm OK...

My doctor just called; my MRI results came back normal. Phew!

NYC

So, we didn't get to do everything we wanted to yesterday while in the city. The bus ride in was interesting, as in the man drove like a maniac and I was afraid we were all going to die. Of course, the people who drive in New York drive like maniacs, too, so he fit right in.

We went to lunch first at The Hard Rock Cafe. We enjoyed some really good food, excellent music, and we even got a souvenir as part of our meal.
No, we didn't steal them; they had a deal going-- for $9.99 you got the drink of your choice and the glass of your choice. Pretty sweet.

We finished our meal and headed on to The Metropolitan Museum of Art, which is 3 blocks over and 40 blocks up from where the bus dropped us off. This is quite a hike, let me tell you, but it's worth it to see all the beautiful art showcased there. We were lucky to have such a nice day for our trip.

While walking to the MET, I snapped a shot of the fountain that marks one corner of Central Park at 5th Avenue and 59th Street. Last year when we stopped here, there was a choir of Quakers or Amish People or something standing on the fountain performing a little impromtu concert. They just kind of showed up there while we were sitting there, formed a few lines on the steps, and started singing. The majority of them were teenagers. It was so strange yet so beautiful.

So we get to the museum and find out that there are new checkpoints upon entering because of the recent bombings in Britain and Egypt. I get through fine, but Harry gets held up because of our Hard Rock souvenirs. Seems you can no longer bring glass into the museum. Glass? I found this a little strange. I told Harry to just chuck them, but he didn't want to give them up. So we had to forgo the museum. All that walking for nothing.

We started back down 5th Avenue, stopping along the way in Central Park near the remote control boat pond. We got to see all breeds of dogs prancing around, seeing as the dog park is right there. We watched the kids race their boats around the pond, too. There was a breeze blowing and shady spots everywhere to enjoy the lovely day. Good times, good times.

We started walking again, stopping in F.A.O. Schwartz since Harry had never been. Last year, they were closed for renovations when I took Harry into the city. Seems they've changed it immensely, and some of the things I was so looking forward to checking out, like the Hello Kitty section, were no longer there. F.A.O. was a bust. Sadness.

We then went to The Disney Store. Yeah, we have one in each of the malls here, but the one on 5th Avenue is just so cool. We didn't buy anything, but we had a good time just walking around and checking things out.

While walking down 5th Avenue, Harry noticed a sign in a window across the street. While on the third floor of The Disney Store, we were able to snap a shot of it. Harry was tickled that someone in New York loves him enough to put it up in neon.

We did some more walking, cutting over to 7th Avenue at 53rd street, now in search of a cup of coffee. We found a Dunkin Donuts around 50th. Eureka! We sat and drank and used the restrooms a couple of times (restrooms are hard to come by in NYC, so ya use 'em when ya got 'em). We then wandered, searching for the Warner Bros. store, which I know is in Times Square somewhere. We weren't able to find it last time, and we had a repeat this time, as well. Where is that damn store anyway?

There were tons of people walking on 7th Avenue, and they were all in my way, pissing me off at every turn because they insist on just stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to converse with someone. At least move off to the side, for God's sake! Damn tourists. You could tell these weren't locals.

We gave up on the Warner Bros. store and kept going to the corner of 7th and 40th, where a coworker told me a wonderful comic book shop, Midtown Comics, resides. He told me to look for a sign on 40th that led to a set of stairs up to the second floor of the building where Midtown was. And, yes, the sign was there. I bought a really cool hardcover edition of Neil Gaiman's The Sandman - Endless Nights and an awesome Woodland Faeries calendar for next year. I'm itching to go to the comic book shops in CT again now. I miss them.

The trip wouldn't have been complete without a trip to The New York Public Library, so we trekked back over to 5th, and there it was. I needed a picture of the lions who guard all the prized possessions within. "GET HER!" Quick, what movie?
The library entrance. It says it was built between 1895 and 1902. The architecture of the building is phenomenal. There were so many little surprises lurking on all sides of the structure. They don't build things like this anymore.
A fountain flanking the left side of the library entrance. Absolutely gorgeous.
Another cool fountain flanking the right side of the library entrance. Amazing.
We noticed this interesting reflection on a building directly across 40th Street while standing on the library steps. We didn't take this pic at a skewed angle; that's actually how the place was built.

We then cut over to Madison and walked to St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the bus was to pick us up at 8pm. We arrived 45 minutes early, so we rounded the corner at 51st, looking for another cup of coffee. We found a deli that served java and waited in there until it was time to catch the bus.

The ride home was uneventful, and we got back to North Haven at 10pm. We hopped in the car and made our way back to Stratford. After a shower, a couple of drinks and some Iron Chef America, we called it a night and turned in.

All in all, it was a nice day, but damn, am I still tired. In total, we walked 102 blocks.

I need to learn to ride the subway.

It was horrible...

Yeah, MRIs suck ass. Especially dye MRIs. Yeah, Matt, it was a dye MRI. Oh, the horror.

I started freaking out about having to go have the test around 11am yesterday morning. I was sitting at work, and I guess the gravity of the situation finally hit me. We're talking about my brain here. My brain is very dear to me; I like it just the way it is. I don't want anyone poking and prodding and lurking in that vicinity. It's my brain, MINE!

I called Chris and talked to him for awhile, and I let him know what was going on with me. We try to keep each other in the loop. We quickly moved away from the topic of the MRI to other things: friends, family, the upcoming picnic, etc. Leave it to Chris to completely steer us off the subject at hand; I think that's why I called him. I knew he'd get my mind off it for awhile, and he's always there to listen (now that we're not married anymore). And he knows me so well that I hardly have to say anything and he still knows exactly what I'm thinking.

I left work at 2:30pm, suddenly wishing I had taken Harry up on the offer to leave work and come with me. I figured he'd just have to do a lot of waiting, and I didn't want him to have to go through that. Waiting for someone at the hospital can be completely nerve-wracking. I thought he'd be better off at work; it would keep his mind occupied so he wouldn't have to think about what was going on with me.

Since when the hell am I such a martyr, I ask you?

I figured it was too late to call him and ask him to come down once I got to the hospital. Dude, was I wrong.

I was supposed to be there at 2:45pm to register (which I was), and my appointment was for 3:15pm. Needless to say, I didn't get get into the MRI room until after 4pm. The woman at the hospital registration desk was a little slow, and then the woman at the MRI reception desk neglected to tell the MRI technician that I was even there. She just happened to wander into the waiting room and noticed me there.

So I get in there, she shows me the machine. What I thought would be a little "tunnel" is really just a tube. Just so ya all know, I'm very claustophobic. Yeah.

So she has my lay down and gets me all settled with my headset, my panic button, and the little contraption that goes over your head with the little mirror so you can see the tech in her booth at all times (they think of everything), and proceeds to tell me that 3/4 of the way through the test, she's going to be taking me out of the machine and injecting me with dye.

Red alert! Red alert! Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!

She saw the look on my face and says, "OK, and she doesn't like that part."

I explained my needle phobia and about almost passing out the week before and my difficult veins, etc. I told her my left arm was better and that if she had a butterfly needle, that would work best. She told me she uses a butterfly all the time anyway.

Ok, here we go.

They put me in the tube, or should I say coffin cuz that's what it felt like. I quickly closed my eyes and tried to think happy thoughts, but the only images that kept coming through were X-files episodes where someone either burned to a crisp in an MRI machine or oozed out green goo from their veins when put into one. Pleasant.

They had my listening to oldies, like '50s doo-wop, which isn't really my taste and made the time stretch even more because of it. When I thought we MUST be hitting the 3/4 mark any minute now, the tech announced, "We're almost 1/2 way through." Ugh.

The 3/4 mark finally arrived, and she pulled me out of the machine. She started looking for a vein in the crook of my elbow. She didn't like that vein. She then looked for one on the inside of my wrist by whacking the crap out of it. She liked that one better. I started taking deep breaths to calm myself down. She inserted the needle and taped it down. I was ok.

She put me back into the machine, but about 2 minutes in, as she was trying to inject the dye, it started to burn, I mean really burn. I told her it hurt. She then realized the vein blew. Pushed the needle right out. It was just sticking into my skin. She tried to readjust, but my vein just didn't want the needle in it.

She took me back out of the machine and told me she'd have to try another vein. It was here that I started to panic a little. I knew this was going to happen. I started to tear up because I knew that it was just going to get worse.

So she went back to the first vein in the crook of my elbow. She tried to insert the needle into it, but it just didn't want to go. And it hurt. By this point, I am all-out crying, and I've also started shaking. And I'm freezing. I'm actually afraid that I might be going into shock. She tells me she's going to go get someone else to insert the needle.

Now my teeth are chattering, too, and I can't keep still. I'm almost to the point of hyperventilating. She asks me if I want to quit, but if I do, I have to come back and do it all over again. NO FREAKIN' WAY! I ain't comin' back and doing this again. So I tell her to keep going.

The new woman decides she wants to stick it in the vein on the top of my hand. This agitates me even more until she does it, quick and almost painless and absolutely painless once she tapes it down. Eureka! We've struck gold.

They put me back in the machine, and a few minutes later, start injecting the dye. No problems. I immediately start to calm down. She takes the needle out about a minute later. I finish up the test, and I'm completely calm by the time that happens. I apologize to the tech for freaking out, but she's apologizing even more profusely for me having to go through that. She was really a rather nice woman; I wish I could have met her under better circumstances.

So, I quickly left, and went to the CVS down the street to buy myself a KitKat. Hey, I needed chocolate after that ordeal.

Now I'm just waiting for the doctor to call.